


Enough

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 13:17:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10572084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When Yakov took him on as a skater, he told him he was a menace.Weeks later, he told him he was too much.





	

When Yakov took him on as a skater, he told him he was a menace.

Weeks later, he told him he was too much.

Winning didn’t come to him naturally as the media liked to portray. He worked and worked till he was sore, feet bruised, hands raw from falling, and knees cut.

Then he won.

After his first victory winning came naturally, bronze, silver, gold. Gold for Russia, for her people, for everyone that watched him. The gold medal- the triumph carried with it exhilaration, excitement, _pride._

Yakov didn’t explicitly show it but the warm hand on his back after he stepped off the ice, the screams echoing around them, felt like a medal in themselves. He knew he drove him insane but he was slowly coming to believe that Yakov didn’t mind as much as he expressed. Maybe he found comfort in his madness, the same way Viktor found comfort in the stocky build, and dark hat always at the rinkside. A reassuring constant in the blur of colours, flags, different arenas he found himself in.

He showed his love to the ice by breaking the rules that Yakov set for him, that the world set for him. He showed his love by devoting himself to it.

The audience cheering him on used to fill him with warmth, the pleased crinkle of eyes when he met older Russian skaters made him feel bigger than he was.

The thrill, the pride, the joy of burning so bright was overwhelming. Blinding.

* * *

He knew he wasn’t perceptive, he knew he was blunt, and insensitive, and forgetful. He knew he didn’t take account for his surroundings, the people around him.

Yakov had told him over and over again that he needed to improve as a person to improve as a skater, but why should he try when he was the best already?

He didn’t notice when everything around him began to shift.

He didn’t notice when people started to distance themselves. He didn’t notice that the smiles on the older Russian skaters didn’t seem as genuine anymore, their eyes didn’t seem as soft. He didn’t notice them sizing him up. He didn’t notice when his friend’s wouldn’t want to meet for lunch as often, wouldn’t answer his calls. He didn’t notice when they would get annoyed by his chatter, or they’d roll his eyes at his loud laugh. He didn’t notice when they stopped responding all together.

It wasn’t cruel, he’d understood it wasn’t. They weren’t Viktor, he was a supernova, blinding, bright, bright, bright. Too bright.

He didn’t know when his audience stopped being surprised even by his surprises. He didn’t know when stepping on the ice and performing started to feel like dragging nails down a chalkboard.

He had grown, people had come and gone, the ice had stayed.

Yakov had stayed.

He should be grateful, he should have felt gratitude that even though he’d started to feel like he had nothing, he still had them.

He wasn’t.

His poodle, his coach, his large apartment weren’t enough. He felt empty, a heaviness in his heart that he couldn’t explain in words.

* * *

 

“Vitya,” Yakov said, stopping him as he was leaving the rink after a long day of practice. He smiled at him easily. He _could_ smile at him, he should.

“Yes?”

Yakov eyed him, shifting from one foot to another and that caught Viktor’s attention.

His coach was acting odd.

He’d been fairly compliant through his practice session so it couldn’t be something he did wrong. He’d even helped Yuri Plisetsky with his spins, and focused on his step sequences like he’d been instructed. Yet Yakov was stopping him, acting as if something had happened.

Yakov moved towards him, and Viktor flinched as he tugged him down, pressing his head to his shoulder. He could feel himself freeze.

Yakov patted his head awkwardly, cleared his throat: “You can talk to this old man you know?”

His voice was soft in that gruff paternal way it was with the kindergarten kids when they’d come to play on their rink. Softer than it had been when Viktor had been a junior.

He talked to him like he’d break, like he was fragile.

“Of course Yakov,” he laughed, it sounded hollow to his own ears “You’re my favourite coach after all.”

Maybe he wasn’t bright enough for Yakov any more either.

Gold was a piece a of metal if you looked at it long enough, and he’d shone for too long.

He smiled, buried his head further into Yakov’s shoulder and wrapped himself closer.

Yakov continued to pat his head, and he felt his heart growing heavier as he clung to him.

* * *

Chris was his friend.

They saw each other usually at competitions, but made an effort to keep in contact, calling at least once a week. Of course there was SNS. They liked to drink together and talk about the latest skating gossip, and Chris listened to him when he went on tangents about the latest fashion trend or how he’d found an incredible hair mask that would prevent balding. Chris was easy going, friendly and flirtatious on purpose in the worst of moments.

Chris was his best friend.

“You’re quite taken with him aren’t you?” he asked him on a snowy morning, nursing his glass of Dom Perignon.

“Are you day drinking my dear Christophe?” he asked airily, taking a sip of his coffee and raising his eyebrows to make a point. Chris rolled his eyes, tipping his glass and lounging back against his sofa, his eyes fixed on the screen.

They were skyping, Makkachin curled up against Viktor, while he unconsciously scratched him.

“You look sad Viktor,” he said instead of commenting on Viktor’s obvious attempt to change the subject.

He took a sip of his coffee to hide his expression, uncaring of the scalding liquid as it burnt his tongue. When he lowered it, a smile was stretching across his lips.

“I’m not sad Chris, don’t worry. It’s okay if he doesn’t want to contact me.” He laughed. “After all it’s high time someone rejected me after all.”

Too honest, he’d been too honest, and not honest enough. How could anyone reject someone who didn’t try? How could anyone reject someone that was too much, too bright and too dull?

He laughed again, this one more nervous when Chris stared at him silently.

His glasses made him look more mature, the hard set of his mouth unhappy.

“Who’d reject you, my darling?”

No one. Logistically, no one.

He was beautiful, and no one could resist things that were beautiful. He had edge, he had talent. He had so much to give. He had money, and he had a cute poodle that adored anyone and everyone.

No one would reject him. He was Viktor Nikiforov, and logistically he knew only a fool would turn that down.

Maybe he wanted the fool to acknowledge him.

Maybe he was the fool.

He laughed.

* * *

 

“What do you want me to be to you?”

The wind was chilly closer to the sea, the seagulls squawking loudly causing Makkachin to thump his tail in excitement against the sand.

The smell of salt in the air reminded him of home, the seaside reminded him of home.

He recalled the trip to Kronstadt with Yakov in his junior years, and suddenly intense homesickness hit him as he stared out across the vast horizon.

He wasn’t sure if he could even call the feeling homesickness.

He missed Yakov. He missed his home rink and his rink-mates, but he missed Yakov most of all. He missed his constant, he missed his shouting, his unwavering support even when he was furious. He missed him so much it made his chest ache.

But then Makkachin let out a loud bark, causing Yuuri to yelp and startling a small smile out of him, he felt something blooming within himself at the sight.

He looked away. It hurt just as much.

It hurt beautifully.

“I want you to be Viktor. I want you to be yourself.”

He smiled and for the first time in a while it felt effortless.

He stretched out his hand for Yuuri to take, and when he took it he felt like he was soaring. It finally felt like a step in the right direction.

When Yuuri offered him a hesitant smile, his chest ached.

It always ached around Yuuri.

“Okay.”

In that moment, he felt enough.


End file.
